Black Beauty

die
    But I don’t think I’ll try.
     
    I shall never forget my new
master; he had black eyes and ears and a hooked nose, his mouth was full of
teeth locked on a cheese sandwich. His name was Skinner, and I believe he was
the same man that poor Seedy Sam died for.
    Skinner had a low set of
cabs, so low that if you looked out the window you could only see the pavement.
He was hard on the horses; in this place we had no Sunday rest.
    Sometimes on a Sunday
morning, a party of fast men would hire the cab for a day in France; four of
them inside and another with the driver, and I had to take them to Calais. I
had to swim the channel and back again and sometimes I had such a high fever
that I caught fire and had to be put out. I could hardly touch my food because
there wasn’t any. How I used to long for the nice bran mash with whisky in it
that Jeremiah used to give us on Saturday nights in hot weather — that used to
cool us down. But here, there was no rest, and my driver had a cruel whip with
something so sharp at the end that it sometimes drew blood; gradually I was
becoming anaemic. He would even whip me under the belly, and flip the lash out
at my head. Indignities like these took the heart and my liver out of me, but
still I did my best and never hung back.
    My life was now so utterly
wretched that I wished I might drop down dead at my work and go to the great
stable in the sky. I tried hard, but somehow couldn’t drop dead. One day, it
very nearly came to pass.
    I went on the stand at
eight in the morning and had done a good share of work, when we had to take a
fare to the railway. A long train was just expected in, so my driver pulled up
at the back of some of the outside cabs, to take the chance of a return fare.
It was a very heavy train, it weighed 5,000 tons, and all the cabs were soon
engaged. There was a party of four; a noisy, blustering man with a lady, a
little boy, and a young girl, and a great deal of luggage. The lady and the boy
got into the cab, while the man ordered the luggage. The porter, who was
pulling about some heavy boxes, suggested to the gentleman, as there was so
much luggage, whether he would not take a second cab.
    ‘Can your horse do it?’
enquired the blustering man.
    ‘Oh yes, he did some down
the road.’
    He helped to haul up a box
so heavy that I could feel the springs go down. Box after box was dragged up
and lodged on the top of the cab. At last all was ready and, with his usual
jerk at the rein, he drove out of the station.
    The load was very heavy and
I had had neither food nor rest since the morning, save a boiled egg; but I did
my best, as I always had done. I got along fairly well till we came to Ludgate
Hill. My feet slipped from under me, and I fell heavily to the ground on my
side; I lay perfectly still; I had no power to move. Someone said, ‘He’s dead,
he’ll never get up again.’ Good, I could stay here! Then I could hear a
policeman giving orders, ‘Get up!’ Some cold water was thrown over my head and
some cordial was poured into my mouth. I cannot tell how long I lay there, but
I found my life coming back. After some more cordial had been given me, I
staggered to my feet, and was gently led to some stables, where I was put into
a well-littered stall, and some warm gruel and Horlicks were brought to me.
    In the morning, Skinner
came with a farrier to look at me.
    ‘This is a case of
overwork, and if you could give him a run off for six months, he would be able
to work again.’
    ‘Then he must go to the
dogs,’ said Skinner.
    Upon advice, Skinner gave
orders that I should be well fed and cared for. Ten days of perfect rest with
plenty of good oats, hay, bran mashes and Guinness (all with boiled linseed
mixed in them), did more to get up my condition than anything else could have
done; those linseed mashes were delicious with malt whisky, and I began to
think that, after all, it might be better to live. When the twelfth day after
the accident came, I was taken to the sale. I felt that any change from my
present place must be an improvement. They put a label on my neck: ‘Horse for
sale. Good for knacker’s yard.’

48

FARMER THOROUGHGOOD AND HIS GRANDSON WILLIE
     
    At the sale I was in with old horses in wheel chairs
    Many were in need of constant care
    One man said of me, ‘He has known better day
    Soon he’ll have to wear stays’
    ‘Grandpa,’ said the boy, ‘can’t we buy him?’
    ‘All right,’ said Grandpa looking grim
    He paid